It's Raining, It's Pouring... But No One is Snoring

It’s raining. There’s no current.

Oh, hello, monsoon. Long time, no see.

I didn’t even bring my cute rainboots.

The rain is pounding out side. I can literally see sheets of rain pouring onto the streets.

It looks kind of pretty.

I love the rain. I love the smell of rain. I love the sound the thunder makes. I love the way the sky lights up with flashes of lightning. I even love the feeling of fresh rain dropping on my skin.

But I don’t really love this power outage. It means I can’t watch whatever crappy Hindi movie is on TV. It means my grandmother can’t cook. (So she’s come upstairs and has started talking about what she was going to cook. Not that I mind. This is all incredibly amusing.) It also means that my computer battery will die fairly soon. Man, I hate this computer battery.

Regardless of any pros and cons, this rain does have one trump card. This rain is awesome because it means it will finally cool down around here.

-May 30th

UPDATE: Apparently, my grandmother and uncle woke up at 1 am because the rooftop drains were clogged. (Side note: why are all the roofs flat in a city where it rains for months at a time? Someone didn’t plan that too well.) They had to go up to the roof, in the rain, and unclog the drain. Then they had to come back down and mop up the water. Apparently, there was 3 buckets worth of water on the floor. And apparently, I slept right through all of this.

Apparently, this rain isn’t so awesome anymore.

I Am Drowning in Food

I thought I was a world-class foodie, but I seem to have met my match with my grandmother. Literally, that’s all she thinks about.

I Skype home just about every day, and all she adds to the conversation is what she cooked for the day. Now that I think about it, I think that whenever I would call India, she would only talk about what she had for breakfast. Hmm…

Anyway, between the Sev Puri and Gobi Manchurian and “Egg Pepper Dry” and all the food my grandmother actually cooks, I may gain another round of the freshmen fifteen. Joy.

Maybe I should start exercising. Maybe.

-May 29th

So No Pressure?

I feel like now that I've actually posted stuff to this blog, everything I do - and write - has to be extremely interesting.

Famous bloggers are full of witty jokes and crazy adventures and insightful comments. They're always up to something. So no pressure, right?

Today I made a pizza.

That wasn't witty, crazy, or insightful. But that's legitimately all I've done. Snaps.

I was going to write  minute-by-minute commentary of today's IPL final as it happened, but RCB isn't playing too well right now. Yesterday, they played beautifully. They destroyed Mumbai. Right now, unfortunately, Chennai is playing a solid game. They're taking their singles and doubles with practiced ease while RCB fielders are throwing the ball all over the place.

Watching Chris Gayle chase a score is absolutely exhilarating. But I hope he doesn't have much to chase.

To Roommate, with Love

I am the world’s worst procrastinator. Here I am, just sitting on two weeks worth of blog posts. They’re already written; they’re just not posted.

So I’ll put forth the effort to write a blog post every day, but I won’t go to the trouble of actually uploading it onto the internet. Sometimes, I confuse myself. Sometimes, I also repeat myself.

Anyway, here you go. (This is mainly for Roommate, since she’s been bugging me to actually put something on my blog.) One order of blog-posts coming up. Heavy on the funny. Chocolate on the side.

That definitely didn’t make any sense.

Whatever.

(On a side note, RCB is playing an elimination match tonight against Mumbai. Send good vibes!)

-May 27th. (I'm all caught up!)

Shenaniganning

That’s right, auto-correct. No damn spelling suggestions. That’s what you get for changing my name to Sangria so many times when I was younger.

I went on an adventure today. I had a granola bar and cereal – finger food – for lunch, so I decided to go for a walk during my lunch hour. But I must have walked for more than 45 minutes, and the sun was unbearably hot, and I don’t think I ever even reached the center of campus, so I just turned around and trudged back to the Aerospace building.

It took more than fifteen minutes of walking and jumping away from cars and receiving puzzled looks from everyone else before I realized that I was walking on the wrong side of the road. Whoops.

And on my way back, a random tractor/cart/thingy driver started catcalling at me and then would stop until I passed by and then slowly drive in front of me and then stop and then slowly drive again. (Why do I always get creeped on? Why?!)

But besides that, my shenaniganning was really limited to walking down beautiful streets and looking at beautiful flowers and taking pictures of beautiful buildings.

I’ll post some pictures if I ever figure out how to actually get them off the camera and onto the computer.

Trees arched over the road, transforming the street leading from the Aerospace cluster to the rest of the campus into a tunnel of greenery. The buildings along the road were hidden behind iron gates and climbing ivory. The library had an immaculate green lawn, and the flower beds were bursting with color.

I only saw a small portion of campus, but lord, is it beautiful.

-May 26th

Scandal, Drama, and a Healthy Dose of Intrigue

I may or may not be bonding with my grandmother. And it may or may not be over soap operas.

Every day, without fail, my grandmother treks upstairs to watch her soaps. I’m sorry, her TV serials. Her channel of choice is Colors TV, a station whose sole purpose, I’ve determined, is to air cringe-worthy serials filled with beautiful people, beautiful clothes, beautiful jewelry, and decidedly not-beautiful drama.

(OH MY GOD, I JUST SPELLED JEWELRY ‘JEWELLERY’ AND COULD NOT FIGURE OUT WHY IT WAS WRONG. I HAVE BEEN HERE TOO LONG. ALREADY.)

My seemingly inexplicable fascination with Gossip Girl is now completely explicable.

Because these shows are like Gossip Girl.

On crack.

By far, her favorite show – and the one she spent the most time explaining – is Uttaran. Currently, there is a lady who is pretending to be blind, a brother who is trying to blackmail someone, the protagonist, Ichha, who just mistakenly drank a glass of poisoned water, her husband, Veer, who was supposed to be killed, and a gaggle of cousins and servants who stand around a gossip and look pretty. And apparently, there have been over 600 episodes before this one. WTF? My grandmother’s explanations were clearly lacking somewhere.

So I decided to put my wonderful mind to work and do some research. Luckily, Wikipedia already knows about the phenomena called Uttaran. Wikipedia, however, claimed that there were over 650 episodes, and the plot summary hadn’t even reached the ‘pretending-to-be-blind’ or ‘let’s-all-try-to-kill-Veer’ scandals. Which means there are probably over 700 episodes of that show. And my grandmother has watched practically every single one.

All I can say is my Gossip Girl addiction is starting to look pretty tame.

-May 25th

IT’S MY FIRST FULL DAY OF WORK! WHEEEEEEE!

WHEEEEEEEEEEEE!

That’s all I can write. I’m too excited.

WHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

-May 24th

IISc, Bangalore

It took over forty five minutes to get to IISc. And once we got inside the main gate, there was still a good 15 minute drive to the actual Aerospace building, that’s how large the campus is.

This campus is gorgeous. There are trees everywhere, and huge buildings that could pass for small palaces dot the roads.

But for how Indian the place looks – there are auto-rickshaws, waiting to take people from one building to the next; ropes of clothes are tied in between the hostels; gate-keepers stand in front of every entrance and doorway; and I had to take off my shoes before I entered my professor’s office – the campus is not so different from Georgia Tech. Students are milling about, chatting and snacking. Kids are strewn on the lawn, watching YouTube on their laptops or discussing the latest sports match. Professors are huddled together, complaining about politics and grant reviews.

Yes, there are a few Indian idiosyncrasies, but this campus feels like any college campus I would find in the U.S. The culture of academia has transcended the hustle-and-bustle of the surrounding city and its culture.

I came to campus today just to meet my professor and familiarize myself with the place before I started coming by myself. My professor seems extremely laid back, and the interns I have met are all very nice. I can’t wait to start actually working tomorrow.

-May 23rd

The Gentlemen's Sport

It’s so easy to fall into routine. Wake up, eat, surf the web, eat some more, read, eat a mango, hang around, eat some more, watch cricket, sleep. Rinse, lather, repeat.

Cricket is the national sport of India. It’s the only sport in India. Cricketeers are treated like celebrities, and after the ICC World Cup – that India won! – these men have been elevated to superstardom. Since the Indian Premier League (IPL) is in its final, exciting stages, there’s cricket on TV just about every night.

Tonight, the Royal Challengers Bangalore (RCB) took on Chennai here, at the Chinnaswamy stadium.

And man, I hardcore felt the Bangalore pride. RCB absolutely creamed them. Dhoni couldn’t do a thing.

Cricket is a strange sport – I’ll give you that. During test matches, there are tea breaks, and the end of the day is determined by a light meter. The umpire wears a round wide-brimmed hat and uses terminology like ‘googly’ and ‘sticky wicket’.

Cricket is a gentlemen’s sport. Players wear vests and slacks and have good sportsmanship. They drink tea and clap for particularly good plays.

But cricket is such an exciting sport.

Every ball brings the promise of massive swings and great dives; the thrill of hitting a six or getting clean bowled; feats of incredible athleticism and endurance.

I think I like it so much because my grandfather introduced me to cricket. He absolutely loved it. I remember curling up on the sofa, watching matches with him. I remember coming downstairs and seeing him peer through a large magnifying glass at the morning newspaper to get the latest scores. I remember when my brother got new cricket gear, and the three of us spent the whole day outside hitting balls.

What I wouldn’t give to go back to those days.

In the meantime, here’s to RCB winning the IPL!

-May 22nd

Sangita Sharma: At World's End

It is currently 6:06 pm on May 21^st. And as far as I can tell, the world hasn’t stopped just yet. Granted, I may be ahead of the ball-game since I’m in India, but really? If you’re going to predict the end of the world, could you at least have the decency to specify which timezone you’re referring to?

To paraphrase what a very witty friend posted on the FB, this would be so much more exciting if we were talking about veloci-raptures. (Pun!!)

Sorry this is so disjointed. And short. I actually have real work to do now. Siiiiiigghhhhhhh…..

-G’s look really weird when you put a lot of them together. I had to delete some. But now it looks weird because there aren’t as many –G’s as the other letters. Oh well. Siiiiiiighhhhhh……

-May 21st

Surprise!

Truth be told, even though I knew I was here for work, and even though I checked my email on a daily basis, I’d all but forgotten that school even existed. That is, until I received an email from the DOPP for a work abroad assignment.

“Week 3: May 16, 2011
List and briefly describe three aspects of your host culture (inside or outside of work) that surprised you when you first arrived in the country”

Let’s pause for a minute. Work abroad assignment? Excuse me? I’m already half-way around the world, and instead of sight-seeing or traveling or relaxing, I’m working forty hours a week. And you tell me I need to do writing assignments on top of it? Thank you, Georgia Tech.

Well, I wrote it. But I have to admit, this entry was rather hard to write. I would say I’m pretty far to the right on Piaget’s scale. Way past acceptance or integration or whatever. Is it Piaget? I may or may not be making this entire thing up, haha. Anyway, regardless of what the theory is, the fact remains that I have been here before. I have lived here for an extended period of time before. Switching into “Indian Mode” comes fairly naturally now. So what is there left to surprise me?

But as I thought about what to write, I realized that this city has changed and grown. It’s bigger, for one. Busier. The buildings are taller, the roads wider, the stores cleaner. And yet, that feeling, that atmosphere, that city spirit that is so inexplicably Indian, hasn’t changed in the slightest. And perhaps that is what is most surprising of all.

-May 20th

For the Record: Jet Lag has NOTHING on Georgia Tech All-Nighters.

Or so I thought.

The plane ride was fine. I sat next to a grumpy old man for the first part, and I was surrounded by a gaggle of Tamil-speaking grandmas for the second, so I didn’t get too much sleep, but I was fine. I just watched a ton of movies.

For the record, if you find yourself in the middle of a bunch of Tamil-speaking grandmas, get out. They talk and talk and talk and don’t ever seem to need sleep, and they force-feed you idlis. Even though you’ve never met them in your life and you tell them quite politely that no thanks, you’re not hungry.

Anyway, I was fine. Wide-eyed, I exited the airport and reached home. I wasn’t tired after breakfast. I wasn’t tired after lunch. When my grandmother went to take a nap, I stayed up reading. When my uncle later took a nap, I started unpacking.

I thought this jet-lag would be child’s play after the all-nighter’s I pulled at Tech.

Wrong.

I crashed at 5 in the evening.

And here I am, awake at 2:30 in the morning. Huzzah.

-May 19th 

Home

I’d forgotten how vivacious this city was. I’d forgotten how the air clings to your skin and how the sights and smells and sounds can overwhelm you the minute you step out of the airport.

I’d forgotten how jumbled the streets were. How cars weave in and out of each other with a precision normally saved for race-car drivers. I’d forgotten how the streets are shared by cars and motorcycles and cows and horses and bullock-carts and peddlers with merchandise and little boys with fruit carts and buses and trucks and bright yellow auto-rickshaws.

I’d forgotten how the sun beats down on your neck with sweltering, unforgiving heat. And I’d forgotten the dust, how clouds of it billow from swerving tires. How you can scrub and clean and scrub some more, and yet the dust will come right back. I’d forgotten the feeling of a cold shower after a long, hot day; how the dust and the grime and the heat and the sweatiness just melt away.

I’d forgotten how a mango really tastes, how the juice drips everywhere and the fibers melt in your mouth. How an entire room carries the rich aroma of mangos; how it lingers in the cracks and crevices for days.

I’d forgotten the pleasure this simple life brings. Away from the phones and computers and high-fructose corn syrup. I’d forgotten how healthy I could feel, how happy I could be.

But the instant I stepped off the plane, I remembered. It felt like I’d never left. It felt like I was home.

-May 18th

Royally Obsessed

Everyone loves a good Royal Wedding. I’m no exception. The BBC, with its special news box of wedding updates, and various Facebook updates and statuses certainly didn’t help the matter. I’ve been practically stalking William and Kate for months. And so, this Friday morning, I found myself wide awake, glued to my computer screen at four in the morning. (On a related note, between weddings and cricket, I seem to be waking up at abnormal hours rather frequently. I hope this alarming trend starts to ebb. Soon. Even I need my beauty sleep.)

Lord, it was beautiful.

Everything, from the dresses and hats (Minus the outfits of those two princesses. What in the world were they thinking?) to the ceremony and the singing to the bride and groom themselves, was absolutely gorgeous.

It was a true fairy tale wedding.

And I think we needed that. These past few months, there has been so much social unrest, so much global turmoil; it’s nice to have a reminder of the good things in life. Of the passion and love we can have for each other.

Incidentally, I’ve decided that everyone who attends my wedding – should I ever have a wedding – will be required to wear a hat. Can you imagine old Indian ladies wearing splendid saris and hats? Oh, yes.

-April 29th

UPDATE: My flight to India was two-fold. One leg, on American Airlines, was to London, while the remainder of the journey was through British Airways. For that first part, from Chicago to London, I sat next to an abnormally large, old British man. He was kind of like a grumpy Santa Claus, actually. Anyway, we quickly fell into an hour-long discussion of how wonderful the wedding was. This grumpy, old man was as over-the-moon as I was about a wedding. Wow.

My Skin Is Laughing

Enough said?

Actually, every time I am vaguely amused and I say the phrase “My Skin is Laughing” I start literally laughing out loud. Every time I try to explain it, I turn into a quivering blob of squeals and squeaks and shakes.

In case you want to use this handy dandy phrase in the future, it can also be shortened to MSIL (which is pronounced kind of like ‘missile’ but not really. So yeah.) Just be sure to credit the word to Roommate and me.

MLA or APA style is fine.

-April 28th

Jumbotrons and Jesse Jamal

Dang, alliteration is tacky. But I just couldn’t help it. Too bad the term ‘funnel cake’ doesn’t start with a ‘-J’ sound. Otherwise my title would have been ‘Jumbotrons, Jesse Jamal, and the Ginormously Jumbled Journey for… Funnel Cake.’*

ANYWAY. This Tuesday was the epic clash between the Georgia Tech and U[sic]GA baseball teams at Turner Field. Like any good student, of course, I was there. Now, I’d been to my share of Cards and Braves games, so I knew the most important part of playing in a MLB stadium: the glorious Jumbotron. I came to the stadium wondering if I would get on the screen once. My friend claimed he’d been on the screen 3 times and could do it again. I am proud to say that I made it onto the Jumbotron 5 times.

5 times. Let’s wait a minute for that to soak in. 5 times. I was on the Jumbotron 5 TIMES. And how many innings are there in a baseball game? Like 9? That means that every other time, the camera man decided that my friends and I were special enough to make it to the big screen. And I must say, I am quite the natural. Hollywood, here I come. But don’t worry! You could be on the Jumbotron 5 times – or, dare I say it, more! – if you follow my simple 7 step procedure.

Sangita Sharma’s Guide to Landing on the Jumbotron, and Striking it Rich:

1. Go to a baseball game where there is a Jumbotron (This excludes all little league matches. Unfortunately.)
2. Find some friends and grab a seat. Try to sit kind of in the middle of your friends
3. Between innings, when the Jumbotron is showing people instead of the game, get up and dance wildly. Pelvic thrusts, shimmys, and 80’s dance moves are highly encouraged.
4. Dance some more
5. Take a break. Maybe get some Funnel Cake. And then dance some more.
6. Be AWESOME.
7. Find a 100 dollar bill
1.  Dance-some-more some more

Also, let it be known that when coming up with “__-step” procedures, it’s much easier to come up with the steps and then name it instead of the other way around. Otherwise you’re left with large multi-step-condensed-into-one-step steps or floofy filler steps – neither of which are particularly pleasant.

ANYWAYS. The excitement doesn’t stop there, folks! Oh, no. In between my celeb-glam-shots on the Jumbotron, I watched two drunk men start fighting, only to be escorted away by the po-po. I went on an epic journey to find Funnel Cake. And I was met a guy with no front teeth named Jamal. (The guy was named Jamal. Not his lack-of-teeth. Ha. Ha. Ha… Haaaaaaaaa.)

Because I don’t have the attention span to give you a play-by-play of the night (PUN!!?) let’s focus on the interesting part: Jamal. And yes, my life is so exciting that Funnel Cake is no longer considered extraordinary.

ANYWAYSSSS.  During my ever-consuming quest for Funnel Cake, I was flagged down by a dubious fellow who was rather on the large side and had no front teeth. He was extremely proud of the fact that he’d worked at Turner Field for so long and that he knew exactly where the Funnel Cake was, and he seemed to think I should be fairly impressed as well. I was. (Come on, it’s Funnel Cake!  I didn’t realize what I was getting into.) As we trekked to the Funnel Cake stand, we started talking.

Crazy Strange Man (CSM):  So you come often?

Me: To Turner Field? No

CSM: You single?

Me: …..

CSM: Why you single?

Me: …..

 CSM: You believe in the Zodiac?

Me: Umm… (I was slightly more eloquent at this point, once I had overcome my initial shock.)

CSM: Zodiac’s crazy. Except my sign. My sign always pulls for me.

Me: Right

CSM: I mean, my sign means something. What’s your sign?

Me: What?

CSM: What’s your sign?

Me: What’s your sign?

CSM: I’ll give you my sign if you give me your number.

Me: …..

CSM: How ‘bout it?

Me: How about I just tell you my sign and then you can tell me yours.

CSM: Okay

Me: I’m a Gemini.

CSM: Gemini, cool. I’m a Scorpio.

And then he pulled out a lighter that had the word “Scorpio” on it. WTF?????? Why in the world would you put your Zodiac sign on a lighter? And then why would you show it to me? WHY????

Me: ….

CSM: So can I have your number?

Me: ….

This continued for a good 15 minutes to the Funnel Cake stand and back to the seats. In these 15 minutes, we talked about NASA, quality Funnel Cake, Jesse James and corn farms. He asked me to the movies on three separate occasions and asked for my phone number at least four more times. He even game me his cell-phone number in case I ever got bored. (Side-note, if you ever are bored, I do have the number of an extremely awkward creep with no front teeth who likes to talk to girls who just want a freaking piece of Funnel Cake.) Luckily, he wasn’t allowed to actually go into the seats, or we may have continued our awkward non-conversation for quite a bit. As it was, by the time I had got to my seat, my Funnel Cake was getting cold and I had missed an opportunity to get on the Jumbotron. Again.

Moral of the story: Don’t talk to strangers. And if you dance like crazy, you can make it on the Jumbotron a bajillion times. Also, Funnel Cake is awesome. And almost worth just about anything. What would I do for a Klondike Bar? Hell if I know. But I do know that I would resist the advances of a guy with no front teeth for more than 15 minutes for a piece of Funnel Cake.

*Now that I’ve finished this post, I realize it’s a blessing that Funnel Cake doesn’t start with a ‘-J’ sound.  Because I only mentioned it, like, maybe 17 times, which is so not title-worthy. And besides, Funnel Cake sounds much more tasty than Junnel Jake. Yuck. Poor Jake. (Ha, ha, ha… )

-April 26th

UPDATE: Two weeks later, I am still getting comments about the Jumbotron. Dang, I feel like a celebrity! (And you can too, if you follow my guide!)

How Sangita packed a suitcase, watched 9 episodes of TV, and entered the world of blogging.

This Friday night, I was on DUTY. Yes, DUTY is important enough to be spelled entirely in capital letters. In case you don't know what this entails (read: in case you are not an RA at Georgia Tech) DUTY is when you are armed with a flash-light, a stack of yellow cards, and a phone with the world's worst ring-tone and patrol the buildings and wait for people to call you for help. When I'm on DUTY, I feel like I'm a rabid hybrid-mall-cop-slash-prefect-straight-out-of-Harry-Potter. Past DUTY shenanigans include:

• Unlocking random doors at 4 in the morning
• Sprinkling crack-like powder on vomit in the elevator
• Battling a drunk dude, and
• Securing housing for a stray, rabid dog

Basically, DUTY is awesome. (Read: DUTY sucks.) This weekend, I was saddled with 24 hour DUTY. That's right. 24 hours. 24 hours of sitting in my room (or patrolling the building, pretending I'm a prefect) waiting for someone to call me so I could rescue him/her from mortal peril.

What in the world could I do in my room for 24 hours?

Let the record show that piles of Aerospace homework, cooking with random bits of leftovers, cleaning le room, and running up and down the hallways is not fun after about, oh, 45 minutes.

Which leaves 23 hours and 15 minutes. (See? GT has taught me something!)

Desafortunadamente, Roommate had gone home for the weekend, so I could not rely on peace-ing into her room every 15 minutes to keep myself amused. (I wonder if Roommate notices I do this… Oh well, I guess she knows now.)

Pulling open my handy-dandy computer, I started surfing the web. But Facebook’s not that exciting when you’re not actually procrastinating. In fact, my entire room – normally chock-full with gadgets of distraction – seemed rather dull. As my eyes searched my room for some entertainment, they alighted on a large bag perched precariously on my wardrobe. A suitcase.

With the strength of a thousand men – or really just one tiny girl – I hefted the suitcase down and opened it on the floor. To my surprise, there was already a suitcase with stuff inside of it. I opened that suitcase to find a plethora of assorted apartment things – organizers, utensils and dishwashing soap to name a few. Why in the world would I hide that away in a suitcase? Sometimes I confuse myself. A lot of times I confuse myself, actually.

Anyway, I decided that I might as well keep a suitcase inside this suitcase, since I had magically ended up with four suitcases at Tech, and I proceeded to start packing. With episodes of Psych playing in the background, I stuffed all my purses and all my tshirts in the oversized suitcase. Six episodes later, I had filled the suitcase to the brim. Extremely proud of myself, I surveyed my room.

To my utter dismay, I had only managed to clear 1 drawer of my wardrobe. That means I had to somehow fit 2 more drawers and my entire closet into the other 2 suitcases. This would take a miracle.

Naturally, at that point, I gave up.

I returned to my computer and gave Psych my undivided attention. A couple of episodes later, however, my attention started to wane. Again. I decided to check my email. Nothing is as exciting as checking email. I feel like a legitimate adult when I’m checking my email.

And that’s when I got it: a reminder email from the DOPP to set up a blog for this summer. A blog! I can start blogging! People around the world will be able to read my every thought and feeling! People can take my opinions into account! I’m going to be a famous blogger! Maybe Tom Felton will start reading my blog…

I immediately paused Psych and started looking for a website to start my blog.

And so here I am, blogging. Maybe I’ll actually be really good at this. Maybe I’ll post every day.

Most likely, I’ll stop after a month.

Unless I’m saddled with weekend DUTY.

UPDATE: On Wednesday, I had DUTY again. Someone woke me up at 6 in the morning to be let into their room. 6 in the morning! Can you honestly tell me that no one is in your 4 person apartment to let you in at 6 in the morning?! There goes my beauty sleep.